#third person perspective

[dearestaeneas]

Pappappappappap.

Turn left. Up three slats. Forward for a bit. Hang a right.

Ancient drywall dust speckled the ground at his paws, the wood old and dry and at risk for splintering. It was an absolute playground.

The rat did not know this, but the house had been abandoned for years. On the other side of the wall sat dusty furniture and heavily graffitied wallpaper, empty glass bottles, and general litter. The town had debated knocking it over, putting up a parking lot, but decided against it.

There wasn’t even a shopping mall. What would we need the lot for?

So there the house remained. Abandoned and unloved by humans. The teens who hid in the leaf-filled kitchen to smoke after school did not love the house, with its 3 floors and creaky stairs. The college students who appeared each Thanksgiving night to drink and reminisce, pretending they were anything other than babies in the world did not love the house’s study, home to an elderly desk that no one cared enough to look in. The rats and birds and insects and squirrels did not see the need for the money, or the books, or the gold watch that still, despite it all, ticked.

Pappappappappap.

His little feet pounded ever forward, his little round body squeezing effortlessly upwards between wooden planks.

The little rat, with his round body and busy feet, loved the house. He did not care about the once-expensive looking rugs, or the elegant, but stained, crown molding, and he did not care about the ornate door knobs. The little rat, in no particular order, loved these things about the house:

He loved the still-somewhat-silver silverware that sat in a kitchen drawer for the noise it made when he scurried over them (knives make for a particularly pleasant noise, with their flat edges that slide off of one another).

He loved the bookshelves that lined the walls of most of the rooms, because they made for excellent perches to sit on to survey the floor (not to mention that if one of the books could be knocked over, a page could be taken for a nest with incredible ease).

He loved the plushies left behind in one of the smaller upstairs rooms. There was one that looked like him! Although this was not his favorite (that honor belonged to a little brown bear, who lay on his back, leaving his stomach open for the most wonderful of naps), it pleased him. A mirror had been knocked off the bathroom cabinet and shattered, its shards sparkling on the floor. The little rat tended to avoid that room, knowing simply that the little silver points were bad news, and not needing more information than that. However, he had not come to this conclusion without first exploring the room, for the initial shattering had mimicked the pleasant sounds of the silverware, but times a thousand. He was intrigued by the other little round-bodied rat who looked back at him from one of the shards. He hoped he was not lonely in there.

But the little rat did not love the house for what it contained. Its contents were beneficial and made life interesting and wonderful, but he would have loved the house if it were vacant and cold and bare and boring. The little rat loved the house because it was his home, and because his home loved him.

His home protected him from the rain and the snow and the cold and the heat, his home kept him entertained and safe and happy. He needed nothing and wanted for less.

Pappappappappappap.

He wanted to do something nice for his home. But what did he have to offer? He couldn’t fix the leaky roof, or replace a cracked tile, couldn’t put a chair back upright or even change a lightbulb.

Ultimately, he decided the best way he could show his love would simply be to live in his home. His home would understand his limitations, while still seeing that the little rat stayed because he wanted to, and because staying was important to him.

He climbed higher and higher, ascending more and more wooden slats and boards, scurrying from opening to opening, until finally: a break in the wall.

Drywall parted, and the little rat felt himself becoming giddy. He inched forward, his little nose twitching furiously, his little black eyes boggling.

He panted slightly, having climbed all the way up to the second floor. A journey that would take a human seconds had taken him several minutes. He looked out from his little hole in the drywall to see the ancient chandelier at eye level. If he wanted, he could climb all the way to the very top, and look down onto the chandelier. He’d done this several times, and would, inevitably, do it again.

But there was something magical to being eye level with the sparkly glass. He would say nature played a cruel joke on him, leading him to his home and cursing him with his blurred vision, stopping him from admiring the intricate details of the crystal before him, but the simple problem with this is that he didn’t know any better, didn’t know there was a world outside of the outlines and colors he saw. He loved his home for its outlines and colors, for the way that the chandelier caught the light at certain hours of the day. He loved the sparkle of the rainbow that was cast about the entryway.

Nature was not cruel, nature did not punish him or play jokes. It loved him. It loved him the way he loved his home, it protected him and marveled at him and delighted in his joy.

He sat there, squeaking with great contentment as the sun went down and its rays caught the glass, bathing him and the home he loved in color.

#i've been having some crazy writers block lately. here's the beginning of something i originally intended to be a one off #but i fear i'm gonna add to this more later. i'm having fun! i want to write something with a happy ending! for the first time in a while! #writers #writers on tumblr #writer #original writing #original story #third person pov #third person perspective #rats #rat #ratblr #fiction #fiction writing #adventure fiction #adventure #adventure writing #cute #wholesome #short story #short fiction #writeblr

[auntie-venom]

Will of Fate

Chapter Eleven

Fandom: Star Wars: The Mandalorian

Story Rating: Explicit

Chapter Rating: Mature

Characters: Din Djarin x Original Female Character

Summary: There hasn’t been an unidentified spacecraft in the stratosphere of Arkadia in over two decades, let alone three in one day. Those skilled or mad enough to venture into the Chaos unguided were few and far between. That means no one has ever made it to Arkadia who wasn’t intending to be here.

Until today.

or

Din Djarin finds an unmapped planet filled with beings who have the same powers as the Child, but know nothing of the force or the Jedi.

Chapter Summary: Eziriel and the Mandalorian kick off the hunt for the missing Imperial TIE pilot.

Word Count - 3,944

Chapter Warnings: None

Will of Fate Masterlist

Read on Ao3

A/N: This chapter is a little later than I intended. Real life tends to get busy when you want to get creative. I really appreciate everyone who is reading and letting me know that you like what I am doing. It is very encouraging. I hope you enjoy, any feedback is welcome!

Chapter Eleven

Eziriel is grumpily eating her breakfast. She got up at a ridiculous hour, long before the sun was meant to rise, to ride to the skyport and pack all the supplies she and the Mandalorian would need. She knew that he planned to leave in the morning after dropping his kid off with Nora and she wanted to make sure she had the skyship ready by then.

She had packed provisions into bags with the assumption that this task would take no longer than seven days. She honestly had no idea how long a bounty hunter took to catch a bounty, but if it took longer than seven days she would personally either grab something from a beacon station supply cache or take the few hours by skyship back to Helix to grab more supplies.

She had put away the drop-seats in the drop bay and packed the speeder bike into that area of the skyship. The ship was pretty small, but the Forest of Ga’ladora was very dense. She was sure she should be able to fly him close enough to the last known evidence point to drop him off with the bike to help his descent while she found a close place to land.

She did most of these tasks with a sense of smoldering rage. Amarian and her were discussing the lost Imperial TIE pilot on their way home from work the day before. After she voiced her concerns over her growing state of paranoia after returning to work and not knowing how to act amongst a potential betrayer, he admitted his frustration with the missing Imp and how he was irritated at the team of Enforcers’ lack of results. Eziriel thought they were just commiserating together over related woes until Amarian joked about hiring the Mandalorian to fix both of their problems; he could hunt down the TIE pilot and Eziriel would have to go with him due to her oath binding herself to his safety. Eziriel laughed, thinking there was no way Amarian would use her oath to the Mandalorian as a way to sneak her out of the office so quickly after being gone for weeks just so she can avoid the tension there.

But the bastard kriffing did it.

Eziriel knows an argument with the Mandalorian is coming. She did not discuss her coming with him on this trip and knows that there is going to be pushback from the man, and she completely understands. She does not want to be put in a dangerous situation. She is not someone who looks for risks to be heroic, she is the type of person to help come up with a plan and send people on their way with useful toys. So she knows she will have to sell her coming in a way that the Mandalorian is going to have to accept, and by the time she is finished with her labor, she thinks she's gotten her argument fully prepared.

It was an overall exhausting morning, but she took a moment of serenity, sitting at the edge of the launchpad and letting the rising sun warm her skin as she ate her breakfast in the quiet of the morning. Trying hard not to dwell on the impending argument from a stubborn man and about how much she enjoyed his presence interacting with her family last night.

After scheming with Amarian about the hunt and the supplies the Mandalorian needed to complete it successfully, they had a hearty dinner where Amarian offered the Mandalorian a table to eat in his locked study with the audio patched into the dining area. With how used to the disembodied voice of CHI the family was it was very easy to integrate the Mandalorian’s input into conversation. He did not speak much, but he asked more about the farming district where Nora grew up and how the agricultural council operated. This led to a boring discussion that Eziriel bailed out of in favor of making her niblings and the green child laugh with silly faces. It was a familiar type of evening that she missed while she was away trying to source the Cloak’s glitches. So she is extra annoyed she has to leave the familiarity of it so quickly because of Amarian using the Mandalorian.

By the time she is finished with her breakfast, Eziriel has built up the mental fortitude she knows she needs in order not to take out her frustrations upon another person. Taking one last moment to watch the late summer sunlight up Helix for the day, she stands up and goes to start running the preflight check on the small skyship.

════════════════════════════════════

“What are you doing here?” the Mandalorian’s voice asks out from the small cabin of the ship and she looks up from underneath the console to catch him placing a forearm onto the upper part of the door frame to lean in. “Don’t you have work?”

“Yep,” she says nonchalantly, hauling herself into the pilot seat and turning it to face him. She stares at him for a moment before continuing, “But I can review project updates during our flight.”

She watches his whole body still as he stares down at her and she feels a spike of worry come off him before he finally says in a stern voice, “No.”

“Yes,” she responds.

“You are not coming with me,” he demands.

“Hey Lori, I don’t want to come at all–”

“Great, problem solved,” he interrupts before grabbing her and pulling her out of the pilot seat.

“But I am sworn to your safety.” She explains, planting her heels into the ground and pulling herself out of his grip, knowing full and well that he isn't giving his full strength. She sits back down in the chair and gives him a scolding look. “We have gone over this.”

“What I do is too dangerous for some princess to ride along on,” he says in a frustrated tone. Leaning over into her space he plants his hands on the armrests, caging her into the seat. “This is dangerous and your silly superstitions have no place in it. Go home.”

Eziriel feels her facial features go heavy in anger at the condescending tone he is giving her and she has to take a breath before she lashes out. She’s used to being talked down to at work by her higher-ups or political snobs who want to use her for whatever skeezy plot they desire, but she expected more from those she considers friends. Yes, she has teased the Mandalorian, but has never patronized him like this before and it is insulting that he is doing it to her. She has been nothing but respectful to him and his more devout followings of his culture, just for him to throw hers in her face. There is a twinge of regret she feels from him that grows as she stares up at him in silence and she leans in close enough to him that her nose almost touches his helmet.

“The stakes of my honor are not superstition to me,” she states in a low threatening voice. “I thought a Mandalorian would understand that and would not insult it. Just as we do not insult how others' honor might be recognized in their culture,” she finishes with a flick to the side of his helmet to drive home her point and glares at him.

That small sliver of regret she feels in him cracks into remorse, but that initial spike of worry clouds his aura and she can understand where his harsh words came from. They stay there, him looking down at her still caging her in and her staring at the T in his helmet hoping she is meeting his eyeline. He finally drops his head forward and lets out a familiar sigh that Ezirial is starting to recognize as exasperated concession.

“I can tell that you are good at your job and my being there will be distracting enough to make it more dangerous for you, and ultimately go against my oath to your safety. That is why I feel I can keep you most safe by flying you to the locations you are needed and giving you backup from the safety of the skyship,” she explains her logic to him. “I have no intention of being on the ground with you hunting this person. My way of keeping you safe is to keep an open comm with you so I know if I need to give you transport, tech, or supply assistance.”

Eziriel gently raps her knuckles on his helmet, getting him to look up before continuing, “Come on, do you really think I am foolish enough to think a Mandalorian needs defensive protection? And that I would be the top choice for that position?” She makes a soft scoffing noise from her lips to show her feelings for that scenario.

“Having transport backup would be nice, so I don’t have to haul the bounty all the way back to where I initially parked the ship,” he admits to her and stands back up to his full height.

“I do seem to thrive as your personal chauffeur. Maybe I should consider a career change,” she quips while turning her attention to the console to start closing the loading ramp and begin her ignition checklist. “Plug in the coordinates that Amarian sent you into the navigation.”

“I am sorry I disrespected your beliefs,” he says softly, ignoring her command. He lowers himself into the copilot seat keeping his helmet on her and she can feel the remorse in both his words. “That was a cruel thing to do. Especially since I know you are just trying to help.”

“Thank you,” she answers just as softly, almost taken aback at his genuine, eloquent apology.

“But,” he starts and she inwardly cringes waiting for another argument. “If there comes a moment where you cross paths with the target, you must listen to me.”

Eziriel looks at how he is leaning in her direction from his jumpseat. He is tense and while his anxiety over her coming has lessened dramatically, he is still nervous. He cares, at least somewhat, about what happens to her.

“I will,” she agrees and smiles at him. “Didn’t know you cared so much Lori. I think you are starting to like me.”

“I just don’t want to create a political incident by getting the princess killed,” he says with a dry tone before turning to put in the coordinates, and for the first time since they met, Eziriel reads a lie off of the Mandalorian.

════════════════════════════════════

Since they were flying with a smaller planet-side ship within the troposphere they were looking at a four-hour trip to get to the crash site in Ga’ladora’s Canyon. The Mandalorian wanted to inspect the site itself to see if he could glean anything that the Enforcers missed.

The first hour was spent planning, starting with potential drop spots from the most recent planetary scans. The bottom of the canyon of the area they were going is too unstable with its rocky foundation for the weight of the ship, but there were a few options where Eziriel could lower into the canyon enough to drop the Mandalorian on the speeder bike so long as there haven’t been any recent collapses of one of the stone pillars that litter the canyon floor with debris.

After solidifying the drop plan, she then shows him some of the options for landing to set up a base camp near where he will land. The closest one, and the agreed upon one, is miles away in a small meadow in the woods that the Mandalorian will have to take one of the steep trails out of the canyon to reach.

She then gives him a small lecture accompanied by a slideshow on her datapad of any flora and fauna that reside in the Forest of Ga’ladora that were dangerous and what to do if he sees one. She doesn't have to see his face to know that he rolled his eyes several times at her presentation, but she does know that he is smart enough to take her warnings to heart.

For the rest of the trip, they sit in the small cabin as Eziriel works through her backlog of project updates from her DefTech team while the Mandalorian sits cross-armed with his helmet pointed at the front viewscreen while some percussion focused music thumps quietly over the comm system. She doesn’t know if he is dozing or just staring out the window but she cannot figure out how he remains so very still for such a long time. She is trying to figure out how long it has been since he last moved when his borrowed comm beeps at him and he slightly flinches. Ahh, dozing then, she thinks with a small grin as he looks at the comm and sighs with a shake of his head.

“Your brother is nearly as irritating as you,” he remarks. “‘Hope you like your pilot, she was desperate to fulfill her council-mandated community service.’” She snorts at Amarian’s message spoken with the dry unimpressed tone of the Mandalorian.

“I am still the reigning terror, I hope,” she says with a smile at him.

“For now,” he concedes and sits up a little straighter in his seat to check the ETA til the drop point. She checks it as well and sees they are about half an hour out and that CHI will be notifying her to take control from them shortly.

She stands up and makes her way out of the cabin and into the drop bay. She double-checks the bag she packed for the Mandalorian is strapped tightly to the speeder bike. She doesn’t want him to lose it on the way down or while he is traveling.

“What’s that?” his voice calls out from behind her making her jolt at his unexpected following.

“I packed some provisions for you. Medkit, survival kit, bedroll, and seven days' worth of food,” she lists as she climbs up to sit sideways on the speeder bike. “I just wanted to give you the option of not having to come back to base camp each night, but you will be missing out on actual bunks,” she says as she points to one of the retracted bunks on the side of the drop bay.

“I appreciate your preparedness,” he says. “But I don’t need much on a hunt.”

“Better to have and not need,” she says with a shrug and then holds her hand out to him. “Your vambrace, please”

He is hesitant but turns to lean his hip against the speeder resting one arm behind her and holding out his other arm to her which she gently takes to lay across her lap. Turning her visor on she inspects the vambrace silently and clicks it on to see the user interface he deals with.

“I could have done that for you,” he chastises.

“This doesn’t allow long-range reception or communication, does it?” She asks, knowing the answer at seeing the hardware through his visor.

“No, only proximity-based,” he says and she hums at him and she opens her HolOmni to pull up local holomaps and her dangerous flora and fauna presentation to begin the data transfer between the two.

“I could fix that for you. Make it so you never have to carry a separate comm again. It’s very freeing,” she offers resting her arm against his while they watch the data load. “I could also make your analog interface into a holo projection interface if you’d like. I’m still perfecting the tactility of the holoform, but it’s pretty solid if you aren’t too aggressive. Give it a feel.”

She angles her arm at him and he lifts his arm from her lap and drags his finger across her menu screen of the HolOmni. She looks up at him to make a joke only to realize how intimately close they are. His chest almost touches her arm and his arm rests behind her in a position that is inches away from an embrace. She feels her neck heat up at the observation and hopes he is too focused on interacting with her HolOmni to notice. When he finally draws his attention back to her face she tries to give him a normal smile but there is a small catch of breath that his vocabulator doesn’t pick up but Eziriel barely hears.

“I think that it might be too nice for me,” he says in a quiet voice before lowering his arm down to place it back in her lap, but this time his hand rests on her thigh rather than hanging off awkwardly.

“You are allowed to want nice things,” she says just as quietly and she feels one of his fingers twitch. She tries to compose what to say next when her HolOmni beeps that the file transfer is done. They don’t pay any attention to it and just stare at each other, gauging one another for a few moments before the posh voice of CHI rings through the ship’s comms.

“We are ten minutes from the drop zone, I suggest you relieve me from autopilot.” Eziriel jerks at his voice and the Mandalorian pulls away.

“Right,” she says. “Saddle up Lori, you’ve got a fall ahead of you.” She gives him a grin and hops down from the bike trying to bury that intimate tension that filled the space only moments earlier with their familiar banter.

“I think I can handle that,” he says while mounting the bike as she makes it to the cabin door.

“Hey,” she catches his attention and he looks up at her. “Let the Will of fate guide your way.” He gives her a nod and she slips into the small cabin to begin their complex descent into Ga’ladora’s Canyon.

════════════════════════════════════

Eziriel had just landed after the successful drop-off and was about to start setting up base camp in the area they both agreed upon when the Mandalorian comms in for the first time.

“Change of plans,” he states suddenly into her earpiece.

“Already? It’s been, like, fifteen minutes?” she complains.

“I have a trail and it goes the opposite direction of where you plan to set up camp. I figured you’d want to at least be in the same direction I’m headed,” he explains. “The second location option is in the direction I’m headed if you want to go set up there.”

“Will do,” she confirms. The second location was much further out, but to the south of the canyon next to a small river with just enough space for the small skyship to land. “Amarian said the storm washed away all their tracks, what did you find?”

“Imperial pilots have protocols if they crash. They are to find the closest civilization to make a rescue call. If they cannot find civilization they are to head to the highest point to set up an emergency transponder,” he explains. “However, they are supposed to make discreet marks to show where they are going so they can be tracked by a rescue unit. You wouldn’t notice the marks unless you were specifically looking for them.”

“And you are a smart hunter who knows their prey,” Eziriel says with a smile. She gets the ship back in the air and can’t help but be impressed with him as he explains what he found. A small mark on the lower part of a nearby stone pillar. From that mark alone he was able to determine the initial direction the TIE pilot was headed six days prior.

“A good bounty hunter knows the target’s tactics,” he states simply once he is finished giving her his explanation.

“I guess you weren’t exaggerating when you said you were the best,” she says cheekily.

“I don’t exaggerate,” he says.

“I know you don’t,” she reassures.

════════════════════════════════════

That first night the Mandalorian surprisingly came back to base camp when it was getting late. They had been staying in touch here and there with him giving her updates and her asking him bounty-hunting questions. When night became fully dark he showed up at camp. He claimed he was close enough that it made sense to rest where she was already set up and had a proximity alert, but the way he groaned in relief at laying on the bunk below her told her the real reason was simply comfort and she was glad she could give him that.

The second day he was out as soon as the sun rose, nodding in acknowledgment at Eziriel’s sleepy goodbye wave. She spends most of the day powering through the rest of her reports and pestering the Mandalorian with little jokes and quips just to hear him sigh, but she swears she can hear a smile in that sigh. He spends the day giving her updates and sometimes talking to her about his thought process in tracking the TIE pilot. He eventually found bootprints his HUD could follow and it made his job easier since there weren’t other humanoid tracks to taint the trail. He doesn’t come back to base camp that day and Eziriel is somewhat disappointed to be spending an evening alone.

On the third day, she spends her time working on a few of her own projects while lounging on a rock by the small river trying to soak in the sun’s warm rays. She ends up asking him random questions today during his updates and she finds out that he thinks having favorite things is pointless. But after nagging him she discovers he prefers savory food over sweet, rural areas over city, and nights in over nights out. Even though he claimed he doesn’t have favorite things he was quick to tell her of his preferred weapons and their ideal situation to be used when she asked, and she had to stifle the laugh his brief enthusiasm caused.

During that third day, he deduces that the TIE pilot is headed towards the mountain range south of them to try and set up the emergency transponder. They discuss finding a new spot for her to move to in the direction he is headed, but off the path that he thinks the Imperial is taking. There were three options in the dense woods and she is unsure if some of the choices are still viable after that storm he arrived in.

“I’ll just check them out tomorrow afternoon to see which one works. I can send you the exact coordinates when I land to your comm so you can manually punch it in your vambrace holomap,” she tells him over comms while she eats her evening ration. She gives him an exaggerated sigh before continuing, “Really Lori, let me upgrade your set-up so people can just drop information to you directly. Imagine, no more carrying a separate comm to sync to your kit.”

“It’s never been a problem before,” he says and follows it with a groan of relief that Eziriel assumes is from getting off the bike for the night.

“Streamlining that process could very well save a life,” she states. “You don’t know how much you might need something like that until it’s too late.”

She can practically hear his eyes roll over the comms, before he goes on a small monologue about how he is perfectly fine without her advanced technology and doesn’t need it to be the best at his job. She just listens to his voice lecture her and smiles softly to herself as the moons crest overhead in the night sky.

<<  Chapter Ten

Chapter Twelve >>

#star wars #star wars fanfiction #fanfiction #din djarin fic #din djarin #din djarin x oc #din djarin x ofc #din #din djarin x original character #din djarin x original female character #man #mandalorian fanfiction #the mandalorian #mandalorian x original character #mandalorian x original female character #third #third person pov #third person perspective

[uniquevocashark]

The Forbidden Happy End Fic Part 1

Fifteen years out of service, and ten since the death of her Lady, Igraine is reacquainted with the love of her life.

The happy ending sequel to A Good Servant.

Trigger warnings for mild gore, murder, thoughts of cannibalism, child endangerment, child harm, liberal use of canon information, bodily harm, brief mentions of lady dimitrescu

As always tumblr gets this first <3

Cell decoration wasn’t an art. There was one goal: making it as monotonous as possible. To that end there were grey walls, grey chairs and a grey metal table bolted to the ground, with grey cameras in two corners of the room.

Igraine half expected a two-way mirror to fully throw her back into the 70’s.

Redfield sat with a cigarette on his lips, and Igraine kept her face equally bland. Redfield was unhealthy; there was a pallor to his skin that spoke of long hours and little rest, he wheezed gently with each breath and his shoulders were slack and sunken like a bombed ship. Chris Redfield continued to look like shit.

“What happened.”

Igraine didn’t answer, looking at the blood under her nails instead.

The room reeked of cigarette smoke. Redfield was now, by her count, just starting on his fourth in the time they had spent in the room. He had followed a peculiar pattern in his questioning, only when he reached the butt of each did he ask his question. First, he had raged, the lines of his face had tightened, his expression like twisted branches; the whites of his eyes had bulged bug like out of his skull, and he had sweat that beaded from his hairline down his face and disappearing into his stubble. He had savoured the second and it had turned him mellow and conversational; he had breathed out the last puff of smoke with a long sigh and at the end of that sigh he met her eyes and asked again.

Igraine was aware of his game.

Over the years, Redfield had become more stoic and serious; even his questions had, and now they were coated in an unhealthy addition of accusation. The ends of his words curled like snakes and sang with venom, there was such a baggage attached to them. No matter the sweetness coated around it, Igraine wouldn’t fall for it. Too obvious, she chided herself, far too obvious. And igraine was nothing if not principled; he would learn to ask properly, or he shouldn’t ask at all. He was angry to everyone else, but he could not stink more of worry the longer he dragged the conversation on.

Igraine was fine continuing the conversation for as long as she needed, no matter how sick she was of the smell of smoke and regret.

“Alright,” Redfield said, breaking halfway through his current cigarette, “So at 4:17pm you and Rosemary went from the classroom to the cafeteria and then at 5:03pm both left. Then at 5:14pm Rosemary began expelling mold. Walk me through it from the cafeteria to the hallway.”

“Better,” she set her hands on the table, “Let me think.”

…

On a technicality, they were going for what was supposed to be lunch. It was more like a dinner, as Igraine had forgotten to eat entirely and Rosemary, only ten and desperate to find approval, had said nothing until after their lessons hoping to win some. By then Rosemary had not eaten since ten thirty that morning. Igraine, who had found herself with a Rosemary shaped soft spot, had not reprimanded her and prolonged the punishment, instead stopping their lessons and taking her immediately for food.

“Rose,” she said, returning with another serving of lasagne, “You should learn to communicate your needs better.”

Rosemary stuffed her face with another forkful of pasta before Igraine had even set the plate down, her face covered with cheese sauce, humming happily. Igraine’s own serving lay abandoned by her side, the layers stripped and arranged around the plate neatly. (Her tastes were more inclined to other, more bipedal red meats that the cafeteria would not provide and which would revoke her ability to live relatively alone if she admitted her preference.)

“I am being serious, armillaria.” Igraine said, gently wiping her face with a napkin.

Rosemary spat a bit of burnt cheese into it as she wiped over her mouth, and her tone had taken on the beginnings of a pout, “I know, Iggy.”

Igraine adjusted her sunglasses and scoffed gently, more at the nickname than anything, “I’m just saying.”

“I knoooow, Iggy.” She sing-songed, knocking Igraine’s glasses down her nose again.

Igraine pinched her cheek playfully, and Rose giggled. “Eat, thank you. They already think I’m starving you academically.”

Rosemary was always happy, even when there was no cause for it. Even now, she smiled toothily, proudly showing off the gap in the bottom row of her teeth. She had lost it four days ago and was still grinning about it. She swung her legs, taking a smaller forkful while Igraine dabbed the sauce from her face. “Do you think mom is around?”

“I don’t know, armillaria.”

(“Why do you call her armillaria?” Redfield interrupted.

“Does it matter?” Igraine replied and dragged her nails along the edge of the table, causing a horrible screeek.)

“Can you find out?”

“I can ask,” Igraine said, “Don’t expect an answer, dear.”

“I know,” Rose said, scooping sauce up and eating it slowly, “I just haven’t seen mom in a while.”

The answers that Igraine had to that were unsavoury; she didn’t like Mia on the best of days and seeing the long periods of abandonment Rosemary suffered had made her like her even less. Rather than say anything, she changed the topic, “Would you like to go back to the classroom?”

The fork teetered in her hand, “Yeah.”

Igraine scooped up the dish and picked up her own fork, “Container please, dear.”

Rose took the container out of her backpack, a small pink thing that had one big pocket for her food and one small pocket that held her handkerchiefs of varying colours and patterns. Rose toyed with her zipper, setting her bag in her

“Now, don’t fret, armillaria,” Igraine said as she took the container, “Chris just gets a bit heated over silly things. I’ll hold your leftovers, okay?”

Rose zipped up her bag and nodded, “Because you’re a tutor?”

Igraine smiled thinly, “Among other things.”

“That’s not nice.”

Igraine rubbed Rosemary’s head, feeling a twinge of regret for ruining the poor things mood, “Don’t worry so much, dear.”

“I’ll try,” Rose said, sliding her fork and plate away and then, “Do you miss your parents?”

“Me?” Igraine blinked, and then exhaled so forcefully out of her nose she almost laughed in Rosemary’s face. She said the silliest things sometimes, “No, not my parents but there is someone.”

Rosemary leaned into the table, her interest perked so high she could have sprouted wings in her excitement, with that soft awed expression of a child that had just found their next fun fact to bring into every conversation. “Really?”

“Of course.”

“Who’s yours?”

“Mine?”

“Yeah!”

It took all of three seconds for Igraine to cave; Rose’s smile brightened her entire face into a mask of joy so blinding it felt like the wrong kind of cruel to say no, “There’s my sibling, of course,” Igraine started, resting her head on her palm and looking at the door, “And a very special woman.”

A strand of Rosemary’s hair curled on her cheek, like a pangolins claw grasping a branch, and for a moment all Igraine could see was Alcina, from the curve of the cheek to the set of her shoulders. But there was just Rose, too, with the way she smiled and the way her eyes brightened, and even though Igraine wanted Rose to just be a mirror, she couldn’t deny that she would miss Rosemary. “What is she like?”

“Oh, she’s magnificent,” Igraine said, her eyes catching on the way a soldier’s carotid vein bulged for a moment as they swallowed, “Strong, you know. Witty, but also stoic, and very beautiful.”

“Wow.”

Igraine licked her teeth, the phantom taste of copper clinging in the dips of her molars, “She had excellent taste too.”

But Rose was already moving on from the conversation, her curiosity sated for the moment, “You’ll see her again. I always see mom again, even when I miss her.”

Igraine didn’t have the heart to tell her Alcina was quite dead. “I’m sure.”

The conversation puttered out after that, only Rose’s occasional questions flaring it up again, otherwise she scrolled through her phone. Igraine didn’t understand it, but Rose could occupy herself with just the screen for longer than Igraine could hold a conversation, within the limits the BSAA had given her at least. If she could talk about the dissection of the human spine, she could go on much longer. The cafeteria was the only place this deep in the building that was built for outside internet connection, or something like that.

Igraine kept her eyes on the soldiers around them rather than Rose, who was remarkably immobile while tapping away at her little screen. Igraine also found it upsetting to imagine eating Rosemary, while the bland faced guards that surrounded them were much easier to imagine dead. The line of their clothes was smooth and stiff, and their shirt pulled around the waist. Body armour, she would guess, and a hidden firearm. And underneath that, bunching and pulling and contracting and alive, was fresh meat.

Her vision was turning fuzzy, and she turned her head away when one came within grabbing distance of the table. Rosemary looked up at her, her phone sitting limply in her hands, and gave an awkward half smile. Igraine leaned over and dabbed at the burnt bit of cheese at the corner of her lips, which came away long, stringy and cold.

“That’s curious,” Igraine said mildly, folding the mold string out of Rosemary’s sight, “Finished?”

“Yeah,” Rose looked at her phone, “Chris is picking me up today.”

“I am sorry, dear.”

Rose coughed into her elbow and when she turned to face Igraine there was a long string of black dotted around the corner of her mouth. Igraine got up and stood as to obscure Rose from the soldiers view and, patting her pockets for emphasis, pretended she had run out of napkins. “Hold still.” She said sweetly to Rosemary’s leaning away when Igraine licked her thumb and rubbed at the mold growing on her cheek. Rose protested, and Igraine ignored her.

The string was thick and grimy; defiantly not cheese, as she’d hoped, clinging to her fingers and trying its damnedest to sink into her skin. Despite its location, too, it appeared to be seeping out of her skin rather than coming from her mouth. Igraine readjusted her glasses and took a surreptitious look around, glad to see that no one was close enough.

The ethical, correct thing to do would be to tell one of the soldiers. “Why don’t we go back to the classroom? We can do whatever you like until Redfield shows up.”

Rose wiped her cheek with her sleeve long enough that they skirted past security. The walk was a calm, long one, being four hallways away from the cafeteria and lined with detectors, of which Igraine knew the location of only four. They’re barely in the second hallway when Igraine realises that Rose had disappeared from her side (and that the leftovers have burnt a hole in a few of her fingerprints).

“Rosemary.”

Rose was standing still, in front of a broken door that had come off its hinge slightly and sat awkwardly. Igraine caught up to her and found that she was unblinking in her observation of it. The door, she noted, was not supposed to be open, but had run afoul of a stone that had been shoved into the end of the track. The hall was clear, for now, so Igraine bent the door inwards.

The stone was a crystal, longer than Rosemary’s palm, pointed at one edge and broken on the other, as if it had been snapped off from something much larger. It was large too, as Rose’s fingers couldn’t quite wrap around it fully, a discoloured white colour that was cloudy rather than clear.

“This is like me.” Rose said.

“That is a rock.”

Rose clutched the stone to her chest. The dots on her face and turned into oblong shapes that began to droop, like an egg yolk that hadn’t quite broken.

Igraine opened her mouth, and then the door shuddered and jerked sideways, careening straight into her. She took the brunt of the door to her shoulder, crashing into the wall with a loud crrICK, tearing through her lime green shirt and cutting into the meat of her bicep. It left her pinned between the wall and the door, while Rose, blissfully unaware but for the rock, bullied her way past Igraine’s legs and into the hall beyond.

This hallway was different to their usual commute, lined with several doors rather than two, and each marked with a hammered metal plate that had different names on them. The only open door seemed to beckon Rose and she went in without a second glance at the other rooms.

 (“You don’t have to explain,” Redfield says, “It’s the specimen rooms.”

“I can stop talking, if you’d prefer,” Igraine replied.

Redfield lit another cigarette and went quiet.)

“Rosemary.”

Rose looked at her, popping her head back out of the room. She was wide eyed, and her mouth pursed slightly; she said nothing and when Igraine called her again she slunk slowly back into the room. In the time it would take a pin to drop, Igraine heard shouts, then screams and then silence.

The door that had rammed her had sharpened some point between her awareness of bending it and her mind diverging from the door to Rosemary as she had shouldered her way past; that point had stabbed through her bicep and snuggled close to the bone. The worst part was that she had ruined her last green blouse, which had handily put all her purple jackets lighter than grape out of her clothing rotation. And Rosemary’s new status as murderer was bad too, she supposed.

(Igraine took care to omit little details from her retelling; no use in telling him that she had opened the door, or that Rose had found a stone, or that somehow she had murdered seven humans, that would be implicating. It wasn’t for Redfield to know, nor for her to give away.)

Igraine never did get to the door proper; after she had peeled the door from its hinges and off her arm, she saw it. An imperfect sphere of sinew and muscle dyed tobacco black, crawling forward on ever shifting arms that disappeared into its mass and reformed as it plodded forward. It made a  srrrrrrrrk-k-k-k as it moved, dragging its bone-covered knuckles across the floor and thudding into walls as it scrapped forward unsteadily.

It was new and unrefined and so indicative of Rosemary’s creativity, Igraine couldn’t help but light up as it bundled towards her as mobile as a bloated elephant seal.

It wasn’t smooth but roughly textured; grainy and rough like muscle; sinew piled on sinew, strung together meat and poorly formed skin that rose and faded in patches like the tide. Not perfect but promising, and clearly in need of something fuller bodied than the meal it already had. It was perfect timing, then, when Igraine walked herself into a quartet of clueless soldiers examining her handiwork.

She didn’t recognise any of them, not that she had ever bothered committing any of the faceless minions to memory; they were distinctly different in that their uniforms were attired differently, bearing different marks on their shoulders and helmets that she had not seen before. They did seem to recognise her, though, standing to attention towards her.

But they were inexperienced and really, it was their fault for being so punctual. And Chris didn’t need to know about their deaths; they were just recruits and those died all the time.

The first went done silently; Igraine slid behind them, making all the appropriate noises of a concerned science associate and he, predictably, never saw it coming. Igraine’s best feature, in her opinion, were her claws; which split him throat to belly before he could gather the air to scream. His intestines spilled like freshly made noodles, spraying brightly coloured sauce as they went, and Igraine couldn’t fully suppress her shiver of pleasure.

His companions were busy with the blob as it liquidated, spreading its mass across the available surface, covering the width of the hallway. It wasn’t until they saw him, bleeding into the cracks and feeding the mold as it rushed to cover him, that they even knew he was dead. And there came their inexperience again; one forgot about the mold, the other forgot about her and the last she kicked into the mold.

He fell face first, screaming, his body convulsing and scrambling; Igraine watched as he struggled and failed, his arms reduced to thin sheets of deteriorating bone that melted away. The mold had risen into a wall, spewing mold from the top in thick rivulets that moved like tar. It was, she realised, like watching maggots hatch; squirming and writhing, hundreds of bodies fighting before disappearing into the tar pool that surrounded it.

The last two she took together, stepping into the space of the third before they could fire and grabbing them by the face as she punched directly into the back of the fourth’s neck. Their spine crunched underneath her knuckles and tossed the third in as it hit the floor. Number 3 clawed at her, as if its hands could find her neck just by the sheer force of wanting it. But he was only a human and though it was slower, longer; his screams lasting for fifty seconds longer than his companions, he still died with Igraine’s heel pushing his head into the muck.

Now, she supposed, was a good time to get Rosemary out. She felt the thought like an addiction; the slow pangs at her temple, the itchiness of her teeth, the twitch of her joints. How much of it was her, and how much was Rosemary, was unclear to her; there was just the need, suddenly banking high in urgency.

“I’m coming.” She told the mold, which gurgled in response.

Moving in the mold was like swimming deeper than five hundred meters in the ocean; it pressed in on her closes and skin, melding and fusing to her body to collapse them inwards. It grasped at her ankles, eating through her stockings, and writhing around her skin, leaving of unpleasant sensation of a knife hacking at her skin. Three steps in and the mold reached her knees, and she was unsure of if she was touching the ground or hardened mold.

As the mold touched her hips, and her steps became more like a trek through set molasses, the mold in front of her having to be cracked before she could continue slogging through. And she was sure, if her ears did not deceive her, that more soldiers had appeared and died to the mold, and that Redfield had likely arrive to scowl at her slow moving back.

But that was of little consequence really; all she could think of was Rosemary. Yammering on and on and on inside her head. Rosemary, Rosemary, Rosemary.

The centre of the mold was a long, tall wall that writhed at her touch; it sunk into her nails and her hands and when she pushed, it pushed back. It was hard as set concrete, and wet as fresh glue, and it was acidic enough to eat away at the sleeves of her shirt and the metal of her jewellery. A shame that as well, because this was the only shirt she had of a true lime colour and not faux candy coloured lawn green masquerading as lime.

Finding Rosemary in it was a task better suited for the blind; Igraine dug her arms in to the elbow and flailed until she hit something small and Rosemary-shaped. Once she had her, it was a struggle to keep her grip.

Pulling Rosemary out was akin to a tug of war with a lion; a struggle, even for Igraine. Twice Igraine had fallen over and nearly lost her grip on Rosemary’s small arm, and her only saving grace was that the mold was hard and set and unready to accommodate her body at all. It suckled at her hips, and groped at her waist, but the deeper mold merely slogged out of her way as she reset her stance.

Rosemary was only half out after half an hour of exertion; it was too much for Igraine, who had not eaten since last night and had not taken her dosage of t serum for that day, and who’s attempts to pull Rosemary free had degenerated into limp tugs and clawing at the setting mold that refused to release her. The harder she tried, the more the mold resisted, and the more her beautiful nail polish chipped and suffered.

Between the time that Rosemary’s arm had pulled free, and her shoulder had come loose, a hand had dug into Igraine’s calf. The hand was slimy and made of bone, and it turned its fingerbones into claws, scoring lines of pain on her skin and up her leg like a lightning bolt. Rosemary’s face would not come free, so Igraine wrapped her arms around the girl’s midsection and moved back, yanking as hard as she was able.

She tore skin, and Rosemary’s bag from her back, and hair from her head, but eventually, finally, Rosemary emerged. She was mold covered, slimy and slippery, and Igraine had done more damage to her face and skin than she would have liked, but she was free. Each step away from the centre, which collapsed without Rosemary there to sustain it, she grew more lively. First twitching, then shivering before she gasped herself awake just as Igraine tore her injured leg out of the mold and into the cold air. Rosemary’s arms secreted white sweat, an incomplete replica of hagfish slime and all the more effective for its clumsy earnestness.

She slid Rosemary across the floor to safety, and cradled her close when they were out of range, at the feet of soldiers who had every opportunity to shoot Igraine point blank and live to tell about it. Most of them, anyway.

“It’s me, armillaria,” Igraine said soothingly, throwing her ruined heels back into the mold, “Don’t you worry.”

Rosemary curled into Igraine’s arms, her face streaked with cloudy white tears.

…

“You know the rest.” Igraine finished, tearing off a piece of her fraying shirt.

Redfield sighed long and slow, a puff of corpse coloured smoke trailing out of his mouth like a swarm of pests, “Rosemary almost died. A ten-year-old got hurt because you weren’t prepared.”

“Come off your high horse, Redfield, you look constipated.”

“A child almost died.”

“And so far, you are 0 for 3 in saving her on time, so you needn’t take a snobby tone,” Igraine crossed her arms, “Besides she is a bioweapon. She’ll be fine.”

He clenched his fist, drawing his shoulders up and his chest deepened. But when his mouth opened, Igraine heard nothing but his painful gasps for air and took a mild amusement in watching his face darken into a lush pink. She had heard this lecture many times before, but the answer was always the same to her; Rosemary was a bioweapon, regardless of his thoughts on it.

“Fascinating,” Igraine intoned, cutting into the spot between paragraphs, “But I haven’t eaten all day, so stop talking. It won’t stick.”

He looked plainly at the leftovers she had salvaged, which she had not touched for fear of getting the mold that still clung to her hands on them.

“These are Rosemary’s leftovers.” Igraine said plainly.

Redfield thumped his fist on the table, the chair screeching against the floor as he stood, only for him to deflate and rub the bridge of his nose. That was the most peculiar quirk of Chris Redfield; he could smother his anger immediately after an outburst, as if the small relief was enough for his head to screw on straight and his mind to clear. He turned away and the only thing he said in parting was “Get to decontamination.”

“And then I’m going home.” She called after him. There was no response.

Home was a fifteen-floor building, that doubled as an office block and laboratory for the antiterrorism groupies. The eleventh floor was where her apartment was, barren but for Igraine, and at a height that gave her a brilliant view of the dull main building that stuck out of the ground like a particularly ugly carrot. It was a dull coloured and frumpy building that spider webbed from one corner across the street to the other and back again. Underneath, too, it extended, making most of the leftover facilities from the pharmaceutical company that came before.

Not that it really mattered. All Igraine was doing was taking a long shower and eating a fridge shelf worth of leftovers while she picked at her peeling skin. And then winding down at three in the morning, with a headache pounding between her ears.

#the forbidden happy end fic #the forbidden happy end fic part 1 #lady dimitrescu x oc #igraine wesker chief of castle staff #my writing #lady dimitrescu #rosemary winters #next chapter so much alcina..... so much unhinged alcina i prommy #you can thank lisset108 and delunesnumberonefan for this #literally would not have written it without them #third person perspective #enjoy <3

[mynamesnotdahlia]

i like how despite everything and all his feelings about ice king simon is still gentle with baby ice king

#of course hes going to be nice with any child that age #he is full of the need to parent #but also just theres something beautiful about being kind to the worst version of yourself from a third person perspective #fionna and cake #fac spoilers #fionna and cake spoilers #simon petrikov #ice king

[butchdykekondraki]

so like i asked an angel what it thought about the domestification of wolves and it stared past me and said "is that not what we have done to you?", and when i asked who it was looking at it stared at Me and said "who do you think?", and when i asked who it was talking to it looked into You and said "are we not both speaking to the same person?", and when i asked what it meant it stared at me and said "you know what i meant.", and when i said i didn't it stared through me and said "well, you will one day, won't you?", and you nodded. i asked an angel what it was like to be divine and it looked at us and said "are you not?", and smiled. anyway who would've thought angels had teeth like wolves lol

#[ren] #thinking about the second person You and the first person Me and the third person perspective and angels #also thinking about what if a really chill dude talked to an angel #so. heres both #rensdocs.txt #unreality

[cinnamon-phrog]

Big fan of fluffybird. However NOT a big fan of how Red and Duck treat Yellow when they're paired together.

#i love when they fight it gives them all depth but. i hate when they gang up on yellow for nothing #sending eachother e-mails but not yellow. calling him slurs. blah blah blah #and then just kind of ignoring YELLOWS perspective and going 'oooh how romantic' #it's just kinda :( to me #and if they ARE parental figures to Yellow i must say they're awfully shite at that point i'm Team Roy #dhmis #this is just a personal giope and i'm seeking people who might agree #i DO like fluffybird but it's two thirds of a whole to me personally #note i said PERSONALLY. please don't pick a fight with me for it because it won't change my mind.

[lryghe]

SVSSS thoughts; perspective

Perspective and the change of it is a major part of the story telling in Scum Villain. I think it’s used in such a genius way, because through Shen Qingqiu’s horrifically unreliable narration, the novel is distorted in such a way that makes characterisation a very difficult topic, alongside drastically altering the concepts and themes explored. 

Through Shen Qingqiu’s eyes, everything is rather black and white. “Luo Binghe will be blackened, Liu Qingge will die, Liu Mingyan, Sha Hualing, and Ning Yingying will marry Luo Binghe, and I’ll just try not to get pickled. Easy right?” But because Shen Qingqiu sees everyone through this extreme lens, the drama of the novel is downplayed significantly. Transmigration novels will always have a moment where the main character realises that they’re in a novel, that the people here all have thoughts and feelings just like they do, and it’s done in such an interesting way with Shen Qingqiu, because it’s one of the four (4) times he’s like entirely serious throughout the novel. He realises that he’s alive and breathing, and that the actions he takes affect those around him, and suddenly the world has a bit more of grey added to the spectrum. He rather quickly accepted he was in the novel originally, so this is essentially a world-shattering realisation for him, having to actually think about his feelings beyond speed running a sexuality crisis. 

But because the novel is through SQQ’s eyes, we don’t see the other side of the coin, we don’t see Luo Binghe, or Liu Qingge, or even Yue Qingyuan’s view on everything (which haunts me because it would be SO COOL AND INTERESTING). And they would all be such interesting topics to explore, because having Scum Villain from entirely Luo Binghe’s perspective would be a legitimate nightmare. Young and vaguely traumatised Luo Binghe being abused by his teacher, then suddenly he wakes up one day in his little woodshed and his Shizun is nice to him? And he continues to be nice to him for years? And then he pushes him into Actual Hell for no apparent reason (because at the end of the day, SQQ had gone around saying that demons were cool for years, before quick-step changing his mind the second his beloved student was one, which was ridiculous and he should be lucky LBH was only murderous for a few years because I would have done a lot worse honestly)? And then his teacher dies for him? And then comes back? And continues to sacrifice himself despite all the wrong he’s done, and you never get an explanation for it? Luo Binghe doesn’t need nor want an explanation for SQQ’s actions though, he’s content to just have his Shizun by his side.  

I found while writing my Luo Binghe analysis on his MBTI that it was seriously difficult to find good instances of characterisation simply because SQQ made everything difficult by being a blockhead about anyone and everyone. I really wanted to talk about this because SVSSS is my favourite of MXTX’s works and it deserves to be equal parts criticised and applauded for this narrative perspective. The unreliability presents a challenge to her audience, and also gives depth to the extent to which you can characterise and the extent one's head canons can prevail. I thought people would talk about this more, but I’ve only seen like 2 people ever talk about this </3 

Words: 571 

Reading time: 3 mins 

#svsss #mxtx svsss #mxtx #shen qingqiu #luo binghe #liu qingge #yue qingyuan #scum villains self saving system #ren zha fanpai zijiu xitong #i just have so many thoughts about mxtx and her absolutely genius use of third person limited perspective its so ingenious it makes me ill

[softbutchthatlovesyou]

I don't know what white person needs to hear this but:

Put down the comparison to racial issues you're thinking rn. It's not comparable 1:1. Bringing up how racial groups act to shut down other issues that exist helps no one. You are going to look foolish. Shut up.

#gideons talking time #racism #third strike of seeing a white person bring up race where its not needed #to shut down other peoples very important perspectives #so im posting thisx #black history month #white ppl are encouraged to rb without clown notes

[bitchfitch]

A journal was found where the blight is thought to have originated. The cover is plain. The if lost/return page was never filled out. The entries are written in black ink that was smudged by the writer. They were most likely left handed. A hand copy of the first entry has been included. Notes added.

Begin:

I arrived in town this morning, a doctor is always welcome in a slum like this but the people were as giddy as they were distrustful of me. Several comments were made about my poor grasp on the local dialect. Mother would be disappointed to know I apparently failed to learn her tongue.

Note: No town is or was near the source of the blight/where this journal was found. San Rafa is the nearest settlement, there is no "local dialect" associated with the city.

Cont: The locals rely on a priest by the name of Father Remei for the bulk of their medical care. He has no formal training, no prescribing authority, and a dated understanding of disease spread. Still, he seems to know he's in over his head and has given me a room in the clergy house so that I may "assist" him. I presume he will be the one doing much of the assisting work.

I have not seen sign of the blight yet. Father Remei insists I was called to aid in treating the consumption epidemic that is sweeping through. I suspect he knows what I am here for but I have not determined If he will become a brother of shared pursuits or if we will be competing. I hope he knows to mind his own affairs, he is a kind man who would be missed.

End of entry 1.

#idk if im going to continue this #its kinda just an experiment since I dont do first person basically ever #Renat #idk. I just can never get third person to work with this story bc Renat is too clinical and Neta's perspective is boring.

[spooky-donut-ghost-house]

John Kramer: "I'm not a murderer."

Also John Kramer: "I'm going to manipulate Jeff Denlon into killing me and then after I die his wife's head will explode and I was the only one who knew where his daughter was, so she starves to death, alone and afraid. I'm not a murderer tho. :)"

#saw #saw 3 #john kramer #lynn denlon #jeff denlon #corbett denlon #I know hoffman saves her but look at this from jeff's perspective #and also the possibility if hoffman didn't save her or knew where she was #this is the third fucking time john put a child in danger #how is his head so far up his own ass that he doesn't see that he is a bad person and a murderer #edit: make this the FOURTH FUCKING TIME JOHN PUT A CHILD IN DANGER JOHN WHAT THE FUCK

[dearestaeneas]

Epilogue.

For a moment, the world burned with the deepest orange before fading to blue. The little rat loved the dark, although his already blurred vision became all the more useless. His whiskers and nose did well to steer him in the right direction as he made sure to take the appropriate time to mourn the loss of the burning light’s rainbow. It did not matter that it would be back tomorrow: The specific moments he savored could never truly be repeated, simply recreated in a similar likeness.

The little rat squeaked with delight just thinking about it.

He did not wonder at just how many of those bright and colorful moments he had left, because such a thought served no purpose. There was no answer that could change the wonder he was so blessed to marvel at, leaving no reason to ask the question in the first place.

Despite its age, the rain and the wet hadn’t fully infiltrated his home. The beams he scurried across remained dry, the older ones occasionally creaking quietly, but respectfully, under his weight. He appeared to be in a great rush, finding himself back on the ground floor in far less time than it took him to leave it.

He exited the wall, running toward the study.

Pappappappappap!

The little rat heard the squeaking before he could make out his fellow little round shapes. Before him lay a carnival: several smaller rats fought playfully as those around them fed or curled themselves into one another as they slept. Although the little rat’s home was now dark, pale moonlight shone into the room through the tall, arched windows. As the moon rose, more and more of the sleeping little bodies began to stir.

Before long, the little rat found himself in the middle of the colony, squeaking enthusiastically. He fed on beetles that crawled their way across the walls of his home, as well as seeds that fell through broken windows from trees. Some of his meal even consisted of raspberries that had begun to grow across the house’s front stoop. As he ate with his friends in the home he loved, the little rat forgot the grief he’d felt thinking about his fleeting glance at the sun.

He did not hold still for long- none of them did. The little rat scurried about, pouncing on his companions and swishing his tail back and forth excitedly. He didn’t like to be alone and only did so at sunset. Although, as he played and squeaked and ran, he wished he could share all of his life with those around him.

If only they knew! If only they knew the wonders the house had for them, just waiting to be found! To be loved!

But wouldn’t it be cruel to disturb their sleep? No, maybe it was okay to keep such a treasure to himself. He would not force his choice on those he loved, and instead began to wonder what treasures he could possibly be missing out on.

His home did not love him less for not knowing all the marvels it had to offer, did not love his friends less for not knowing the beauty of the chandelier at sunset.

The little rat’s little feet pattered against the wooden floor, smooth and worn after years of those who came before him.In a sea of identical little noises, his own little pappappappappap! added to that legacy. Those who were to come after him would not know his unique squeaks or the way his specific feet sounded, but they would know their own, acting as a similar enough likeness.

#thank you everyone for the love on the first part of this! i cannot believe how much attention its gotten and everyone has been so kind<3 #decided this one didn't need a long follow up :) #take care of yourselves! love is real! #writers #writers on tumblr #writer #original writing #original story #third person pov #third person perspective #rats #rat #ratblr #fiction #ficiton writing #adventure ficiton #adventure #adventure writing #cute #wholesome #short story #short ficiton #writeblr

[auntie-venom]

Will of Fate Masterlist

Story Rating: Explicit

Characters: Din Djarin x Original Female Character

Summary: There hasn’t been an unidentified spacecraft in the stratosphere of Arkadia in over two decades, let alone three in one day. Those skilled or mad enough to venture into the Chaos unguided were few and far between. That means no one has ever made it to Arkadia who wasn’t intending to be here.

Until today.

or

Din Djarin finds an unmapped planet filled with beings who have the same powers as the Child, but know nothing of the force or the Jedi.

Read on Ao3

Author Masterlist

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

#the mandolarian #the mandalorian fanfiction #the mandalorian x original character #din djarin #din djarin x ofc #Din Djarin x Original Female Character #din djarin x original character #Pedro Pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #eventual smut #star wars #star wars fanfiction #slow burn #fanfiction #fanfic #third person pov #third person perspective

[dueling-jesters]

I deeply apologize to anyone perusing the spy vs spy tag here on tumblr to get a sense of what the fanbase is like. I am so sorry for being annoying and cringe about the spies. I'm sorry for constantly drawing these fucked up weird little guys making out with each other more often than the typical scheming and murdering. It will happen again.

#actually idk how people view the fanbase from an outside perspective. i've blocked roughly a third on the fandom (usually nothing personal!) #spy vs spy #this is not a serious post

[gailynovelry]

A while ago, we saw someone explain why they don’t like first person. Aside from “it’s shallow” (which feels like a shallow critique itself without more context), they cited a desire to understand what all the other characters in a scene are thinking and feeling, and I found that very interesting.

Because I don’t feel like every story benefits from knowing every character involved in it to such an intimate degree.

A lot of interesting speculation can be derived from gaps in the narrative. Why did he do that? What was her real motive there? The protagonist can speculate, but are they really the most objective source for that, or are you assuming that they are because they’re in the narrator seat, and they haven’t explicitly called themself unreliable?

First person creates a very specific opportunity to convey characters outside of the protagonist via showing and not telling.

It also creates a great opportunity to put your reader in a mental maze (the central narrator’s perspective) and give them a fun crumb trail out of it (the way that other characters react to the narrator).

I personally think that first person really shines under the right circumstances; and I think one of the best circumstances is when the central narrator has some horrendously skewed worldview. When they’re a fucked up little guy. When they think they know what’s up and they really, really don’t.

And when there’s other characters just as fun outside of them to force the reader to fill in the blank spaces for themselves.

Anyway, sometimes I feel like the push against first person is motivated by people being burned by boring, one-dimensional first person narrators and/or a distaste for common YA conventions. At other times, I feel like it’s motivated by the very bland desire to have the author shine a flashlight into every nook, cranny, and crevice of the narrative so that you don’t miss out on anything. I understand the desire to know more, but it's also fun to be able pick up the flashlight yourself as a reader!

No style of narration is inherently lesser than another. They just suit different readers and author's tastes.

#writeblr #first person #writing #writing advice #this was queued to put distance between us having this thought and us putting it out #anyway this is why we write first person narration for Nathaniel and Velvet #they’re both fascinating and you’re supposed to be dissecting their thought process while you’re immersed in it! #their perspective is the cage we’ve dropped the narrative in #and the way that OTHER characters REACT to them from the outside will help tell you what is actually going on!! #Nathaniel is a nervous wreck and can be easily convinced that he is more or less competent and/or smooth than he actually is #while Velvet is extremely traumatized and has internalized that trauma into a blithe normalcy and passively fucked-up sense of humor #the way that other people react to Velvet opening his big mouth should say way more than #any perspective switch where we cut to a Not Velvet character internally explaining “Velvet is fucked up guys don’t emulate Velvet” #anyway third person is beautiful. we love third person. #but books would be less rich if that was the only acceptable perspective to use

[sendmyresignation]

really love alternating between girls to the front and listening to washed up emo episodes. to me it so clearly demonstrates a lot of the friction btw the nebulous diy posthardcore/pre-midwest emo conglomerate and riot grrl is often a matter of like. basic difference in musical ideology and subculture values lmao. like. this guy from art monk was talking about how some of his friends bands have been forgotten because a lot of the scene was v. humble and believed in letting the music speak for itself which imo fits with a lot of women in these bands who talk about wanting to be seen as "serious artists" not bc women arent "serious" but rather its emblematic of the type of band/music relationality they want to embody. like. the women in these scenes, to varying degrees, certainly interacted and invested in the same values as their peers- its weird to imagine just bc they are women that (1) they all should think the same and (2) they all felt inherently isolated from their communities??

#we can have a discussion about if these women were successful at being taken seriously and such for sure #but to me it has a lot more to do with diy ethics than like. antifeminist false post-genderism like marcus implies #and every subculture and scenes values are like. they have pros and cons obv but there is no CORRECT choice ultimately #its v frustrating that the limitations of the olympia anyone can play music! perspective is like never interrogated #(bc personally im sooo completely uninterested in that music rhetoric even if i can objectively see its value) #man i wonder how many shitty art school dudes felt emboldened by the k records bullshit.... #not to mention how much of that music imo has little longevity (again. fine! the ephemeral nature of creation is beautiful! not for me) #anyway i love washed up emo bc tom loovvess jimmy eat world but i can so tell he probably hates mcr. so funny. #hes the guy who compares third wave to glam metal. which i think is fun but is clearly meant as a sort of criticism of its commercial nature #but again. jimmy is his favorite band so like. i do have to chuckle. same way i feel sometimes about dan ozzi. what was the line. #my posts

[fomar]

ok ok hold on putting this on my blog too but i think if you love magus as a character you NEED to consider schalas character as well and how infinitely more fucked up her situation is. she has been pretty much objectified by everyone in her life, and to find out that one of those people is her little brother? that is so ungodly painful i can't even articulate it

#and i say this as a leetle bit of a magus fanboy [ungendered] #like even if his end goal is to save schala and kill lavos. and i do think he cares for her but #in trying to accomplish that goal he ended up contributing to her suffering #rlly magus is just a very selfish revenge motivated person #and that's so much more tragic from schala's perspective. the hurt that someone you love inflicted on you in trying to 'save' you #not to say i don't love exploring magus angst but i have opened my third eye and realized schala is the saddest character here #immmm not tagging this i dont want it to breach containment outside of my friend circle